VISIT PANCHMARHI

If you can make one heap of all your winnings, and risk it on a week in the hills, would Pachmarhi reward you, my son? Armed with pre-arranged hospitality from MP Tourism, one sallied forth in search of colonial cottages and Raj nostalgia.

The drive in is a good one. Excellent straight road across the plain from Pipariya, the nearest railhead, and then a well-maintained hill road that winds its way up to Pachmarhi through the Satpura National Park. The temperature dropped perceptibly as we climbed, and was positively bracing by the time we got to the top. A quick run through the market area, several twists and turns, and we were home, at the Satpura Retreat.
On a quiet lane, far from the madding crowds at the market, its outer walls are painted a light green, and, for some strange reason, the roof tiles are a darker shade of the same colour.
That is your basic introduction to the decoration style that results from governments and public tenders, that one affectionately refers to as Erm, Government department Art Dekho (EGAD, for short). Colonial? Well, one has eaten the MPTDC’s salt, but one has professional obligations to this magazine. So, the kindest thing one can say is that the place has been made efficiently livable. Aside from some of the woodwork—which, in most places has been painted over rather than polished— once you’re inside your room, the only clue that you’re in a restored colonial cottage, is the height of the ceilings and the generous spread of the room itself. No four-poster, no carved wooden legs on the bed, no claw-foot bathtub. There is an ornamental fireplace, but the ‘ornamental’ bit is strictly in the eyes of its designer. And while the electrical fittings dangle from authentically long stems, they’re modern in the worst way. The bathroom fittings are, er, ah, um, well—you know, funny pseudo-bronzy faucets and stuff like that?

The food is decent and plentiful, and reasonably priced. But don’t expect to be downing mulligatawny soup and kedgeree. One eccentricity of the worthy MPTDC is that they have the same menu across all their properties, heritage or not. That said, there’s reasonable variety, and they’re flexible enough to rustle up an off-menu sandwich if your little heart so desires

The good side now. The rooms are comfortable, and just six rooms mean that the place is never crowded, and that a vigilant member of the staff is usually within polite hailing distance. The service is warm and friendly, and the staff seems to know just when you want to shoot the breeze a little and when to leave you alone.

A broad, cool wraparound verandah looks out on to a lovely little garden (make sure you get one of the three rooms that open out thataway) with a wonderful view of the Satpuras on the horizon. Bees and dragonflies go about their business, and birds dart around. So, if tranquillity and a generous dollop of nature rock your boat, this is a lovely place to get yours.

I would have been content to spend my stay ensconced in wicker chair with a good book, but Kedar has been instructed to get Lots Of Activity Shots. So, off we go in a hired Gypsy. But first, noblesse must be obliged, so we visit the two other heritage cottages MP Tourism runs, Rock End Manor and Glen View.

En route, we stop off at the lake. Brightly-coloured pedal-boats filled with noisy holidaymakers dot the serene waters, a horse, a camel— and a small quad bike! —await landlubbers’ custom. A boat tilts precariously as some youths stand up in it to pose for pictures, but, alas, does not tip over. Idiot-proof, these fibreglass flat-bottomed vessels, sadly.

Rock End is a sparkling white house perched on a small rise, off by itself, overlooking acres of meadows. Creepers, a nice garden, many flowers, and one beautiful painted glass window win my instant approval. Glen View is a rambling old place in its own grounds. But those grounds also have a new, large building which houses a conference room and the dining room (which is also the only MP Tourism property here with a bar), and a multitude of smaller buildings that our enquiries reveal are their standard AC rooms. It is, by far, and despite the newer constructions, the best-looking of them all, with the décor and fittings closer to matching the exteriors. One can easily imagine a coach and horses rattling up the driveway. Quite charming.

We spend the next day Doing Pachmarhi in no uncertain terms. The Church of the Annunciation (or was it Assumption? One’s upbringing is suspect.), better known locally as the Catholic Church, dating back to 1892, is in regular use. It’s in army property, so you’ll have to request the guards to let you in, but it’s worth a visit for the beautiful stained glass. The parish priest, if he is in, will personally welcome you at the door, and point out objects of interest. Among them, beautiful Belgian stained glass windows, and a carved stone pulpit and baptismal font. Overall, though, it has a mildly antiseptic feel to it. Christ Church, the Anglican Church is closer to the town centre. It is slightly older (1875) and in poor repair; sunlight peeps through holes in the roof, the pews are dusty. But it is in regular use too, with a padre coming in once a week. It’s a far more beautiful church, with it’s half-dome over the altar, wooden beams, and magnificent stained glass too, despite many a missing pane.

These, however, are not Pachmarhi’s main draw. What brings the teeming masses here, even more than the invigorating climate and the wonderful views, are the cave temples, dedicated mainly to Shiva (Jata Shankar and Mahadeo are the best-known). There are also cave paintings, most around 1,500 years old, but some date back as far as 8000 BC. The temples see brisk custom even off-season and the way of the devoted is lined with stalls selling all manner of religious aids.

For the adventure lovers there is rock climbing, and treks and nature walks to be had, but if you want to see animals, the best options involve overnight stays in forest guesthouses. Don’t expect to see any tigers, the "Satpura Tiger Reserve" signs notwithstanding.

Oh yes. In the area known as the Helipad or Landing Field, a private operator has a parasailing operation going. Kedar took a ride, and, desiring to fill the unforgiving minute—and not to look too wimpy—I did too. To the detriment of my coccyx, thanks to a clumsy landing. I type this perched on many soft cushions, but it still hurts more than foes or loving friends. Thanks to said affliction, one spent the last morning of our stay visiting Pachmarhi’s only (apparently) doctor, and being shot full of painkillers, so nearly missed out on the find of the trip.

Right next to the Satpura Retreat is Evelyn’s Own, the home of Colonel Rao and his wife. We dropped in on the advice of a taxi driver, and were rewarded amply. In the half-hour we spent chatting with the genial couple, we learn how they bought the place as their retirement home, how they began taking in house guests, and gradually converted some of the outer buildings—garages, stables, etcetera—into guest rooms. The rooms are cosy, all ACed, the service, great, and the company, most excellent. "It’s a quiet place, Pachmarhi," says ‘Bunny’ Rao, "and it was partly so that we would get some interesting company."

If it’s colonial ambience you want (forgive me, MPTDC, but those fireplaces!), I have to say Evelyn’s Own does it better.

USEFUL FACTS 
GETTING THERE
By air: The nearest airport is Bhopal, a little short of 200km. 
By rail: Pipariya (50km) is the closest station. Not all trains stop there but from Mumbai you could take the Kolkata Mail, which does (leaves 21.25pm, arrives 10.38am). The larger Itarsi junction is 100km away, and many choose to switch to road transport from there.
If you do go via Pipariya, you’ll need to get a taxi to Pachmarhi. It should cost around Rs 500 (off-season; prices will go up in summer). If you’re staying at an MPTDC property, take a one-minute walk from the station to their tourist motel, where the staff will help you get a car at reasonable rates.

WHERE TO STAY
MP Tourism’s colonial cottages— Satpura Retreat, Rock End Manor and Glen View—have six AC deluxe rooms each, priced at Rs 2,990 for a double. Don’t bother with the 15 standard AC rooms at Glen View; they’re newer constructions. For bookings contact Madhya Pradesh Tourism at 0755-2778383 (more numbers at www.mptourism.com).
Evelyn’s Own has 15 rooms, all ACed, from Rs 1,500 to Rs 2,500. Contact 07578-252056, evelynsown@gmail.com, www.geocities.com/bunnyrao27

WHAT TO DO
If you’re at the MP Tourism places, there isn’t much for those who aren’t TV addicts and can only take so much sitting around breathing clean air. If you want to see the sights, they organize tours. A Gypsy with driver will cost you Rs 650 for the full day.

Evelyn’s Own offers you tennis and badminton, some indoor games, a paddling pool, even a tree house. The Raos will also arrange treks and nature walks, and visits to the Satpura National Park. They’ll even get you a game on the Lord Lansdowne Golf Course for the price of the greens fees. Plus there’s a chance of fascinating conversation with the Colonel and his lady, raconteurs both.

VISIT DIBRUGARH

My bedroom is on the first floor and I have to a climb a semi-covered staircase with a charming umbrella- and hat-stand at one corner. Once upstairs, I cross what seems like acres and acres of floor-space to get to my room. The planters obviously did not believe in doing anything in half measure. My bedroom seems large enough to sleep an army, with huge box-windows overlooking the lawn. There is a writing-table at the wall opposite the bed, an easy-chair, a shoe-rack, a mirror and a dresser. The bedroom leads to a small dressing room, which in turn communicates with the bathroom. As if these were not enough, there is a huge sitting room outside which my bedroom shares with the one next to it.

I spend most of my time lazing on the right-angled verandah that runs all along the front and side of the bungalow. Most of it is covered by the ubiquitous mosquito wire so beloved of the Raj. There are maps on the walls and fading group photographs of the garden staff. In the somnolent afternoon haze, I feel I have been time-warped back to over a century ago. I half-expect to see screaming children explode out of the rooms, pursued by an admonitory ayah or an elder sibling, or a red-faced, loud-voiced army colonel demand his afternoon cuppa.

Daily life in the bungalow is ceremonial, like a slow pavane danced to an invisible orchestra. Breakfast is laid out on the sunny verandah in all its English splendour—there is honey and marmalade and scrambled eggs and chops and fried tomatoes to go with the toast and tea. Dinner had been equally solemn and elaborate, beginning with an excellent tomato soup and ending with trifle. I am overwhelmed by the attentions of the kitchen staff who flit to and fro noiselessly between courses. And, of course, there is that most English institution of them all—bed-tea—delivered with Jeevesian precision and discretion at the desired hour.

If you think that all this soft living is bad for the moral fibre, there are more energetic things to do in and around Dibrugarh. Purvi Discovery (which is the name of the tourism company run by the Jalans) conducts trips to nearby Kaziranga and Dibru-Saikhowa national parks, Majuli (the biggest river island in the world) and Rukmini island, where you can go kayaking, parasailing or water skiing. Those of a more historical bent can see the Ahom monuments at Sibsagar or the World War II cemetery at Digboi. Other activities on offer are heritage tea tours, golfing holidays and tribal tours. All these are managed by Purvi Discovery, with the Jalans—Vineeta and Manoj—actively involved in its day-to-day running.

Lulled into an almost lotus-like trance by the charms of Mancotta, it is sometimes easy to forget that one is in the middle of a working tea-estate. Mancotta is not your average heritage property marooned in its own splendid isolation, forever cut off from its past. Life goes on as usual amidst the orderly and rectilinear neatness of the tea hedges. Children go to crèches or schools while their mothers pick tea leaves and the factories hum with the business of rolling, firing and sorting. The tea is then packed and labelled and sent to the auction houses in Guwahati from where they find their way to all corners of the world. Over all these activities, the Mancotta Chang has stood sentinel for over a century and a half, a fixed point in a world of change.

THE INFORMATION
GETTING THERE
By air: Air Deccan flies to Dibrugarh from Kolkata (via Guwahati). Fares from Rs 500 (see www.airdeccan.net). Indian flies from Delhi to Dibrugarh (via Kolkata) for Rs 16,205 (see www.indian-airlines.nic.in).
By rail: The Dibrugarh Rajdhani links the city to Delhi (Rs 3,240 on 2A). It is also connected with other Indian cities by express trains.
By road: NH37 links Dibrugarh and other important towns of Assam, from where AC and non-AC deluxe coaches are available daily. The town is 443km from Guwahati.
The Mancotta Chang Bungalow is set in the Mancotta Tea Estate, just outside Dibrugarh, 14km/25min from the airport, 10km/20min from the train station.

THE BUNGALOW
There are six rooms on offer at Mancotta Chang. Tariffs range from Rs 1,000 for the single non-AC to Rs 3,600 for the AC double (service tax and meals extra). Transfers and a tea tour are provided at an extra charge. A smaller bungalow, called the Chang Bungalow, in Jalan Nagar South, is also open to visitors.

ACTIVITIES
Purvi Discovery, which runs Mancotta Chang, offers a range of themed holidays in the environs of the bungalow. These include trekking, tribal tours, riding holidays, golfing and birdwatching.

CONTACT
Purvi Discovery, Jalannagar, Dibru-garh; 0373-2301120, purvi@sancharnet.in,www.purviweb.com.

VISIT KOVALAM

I have trouble sleeping and when my alarm woke me I cursed. One staggering where-did-I-leave-my-bloody-sandals hour later, we left for the airport. After traffic jam, semi-asphyxiation and an unpleasant encounter with an irritable traffic constable, we waited two hours on the runway with gruelling temperatures, no refreshment and catatonic airhostesses.
Finally we took off for Trivandrum and the Karikkathi Beach House, winner of a Kerala state tourism award for excellence. “Make sure you get some photographs with a ‘human element’ in them,” I had been told, and as we drove the coconut tree-lined 15km from the airport to Karikkathi, I imagined numerous sunburnt pink Germans, the occasional flag-waving Marxist, seedy ayurvedic massage parlours, rave parties, and Gulf returnees with too much gold on their necks. As Adarsh, my travelling companion, said: “Sex, drugs and coconut oil.”

Rajesh and Santosh, the manager and assistant chef, carried our bags the few hundred metres to the thatched beach house, through coconut groves, not a soul in sight. The Karikkathi Beach House has no road access and Sajjad, a bank clerk-turned-hotelier, and his wife Shaina said that they want to keep it that way. 
“A road brings too many people.”
At Karikkathi there were no drugs, disillusioned Marxists or raves. I noted anxiously that there were hardly any human elements either. The beach is private, white sanded, secluded and clean with large rock formations on either end blocking anyone who might want to stroll by and peddle you beads. The two-bedroom beach house is built on a rock balcony of sorts overlooking the Arabian Sea. The surf crashes into the beach 50 metres away and, except for the resident myna, that’s all you hear.
“So, what’s there to do here?” I asked Sajjad and noticed one of his eyebrows rise slightly. “Well, there’s the beach and in house ayurvedic massages. You can go boating, we could organize a trip to the temples in Trivandrum. And for now you can ask the chef for anything you might like to eat, just ring that bell.”
“Well, I meant, what’s there to do here?”
Sajjad’s eyebrow went up higher. He smiled and said, “Nothing.”
I rang the bell and Rajesh appeared almost immediately with Krishna, the chef, in tow. Two tender coconuts, an amazing fish curry and home-baked bread later, I leant back in my cane armchair, the sound of surf in my ears, a magnificent sunset ahead, and decided that I appreciated the word ‘nothing’ most immensely.
A Swiss architect Karl Damschen designed the house and used local materials for its construction. Both rooms are airy, clean and have wonderful sea views. They are simply furnished with cane mosquito-netted beds and old teak furniture. There is no air conditioning. That night I left the windows open and I didn’t need a fan. For the first time in days I slept like a baby.
The next morning I realized that no one had called me in a while. (Reason 7 why I don’t sleep very well.) Cell phones do not work in the house. Strangely, they work 50 meters to the right and left of the property. I put my phone in the drawer by the bed and went down to the beach.
The beach was clean, no plastic packets washed up anywhere and the one bit of garbage I saw, a slipper, was picked up later that day by the lady who left it behind. The water was warm and deep a few meters away from the surf. For some time I was the only person I could find in any direction.
My footprints were the only things that followed me that afternoon and Sukumar, a local fisherman, came by in his catamaran. I found myself reaching for my cell phone that wasn’t there. Had I paid the electricity bill? Why hasn’t she called? What’s the bloody cricket score?
That evening, I sat alone on the beach with three very friendly dogs and a beautiful sunset for company. I decided that maybe she wasn’t worth it after all, India would probably win the match and the electricity bill could go to hell. Besides, I had meen porichathu extra spicy, more homemade bread and an ayurvedic massage to look forward to.
Manu the masseur beat the hell out of me that evening in a massage room behind the beach house with strange oils from strange bottles. I dozed off in the middle and later I exited the steaming bathroom, still smelling of herbs and headed down to the balcony for dinner and conversation.

There are never more than four guests here and the only two other people there were middle-aged Australians, Margaret and Eric, who seemed content to lie about on deckchairs staring at the sea and reading Marie Claire for hours on end. They told me they liked Karikkathi as it was away from the chaos of most Indian tourist destinations. “The massages are excellent,” said Margaret, “and do try the meen purichattoo.”

The beach house lies a few hundred metres away from the Surya Samudra resort, the most expensive hotel in these parts, according to Sajjad. I met with Daniel and Gilda, photographers from New Mexico, who had walked down from there to the secluded Karikkathi beach for “peace and quiet time”. In the distance, Sukumar the fisherman fished for stingray with a handline. Daniel went for a swim and Sukumar shook his head. (“These foreigners are crazy.”) I photographed him. I watched the water make strange patterns in the sand around my feet. I got sunburnt.

The next day I walked about the coconut groves, watched a man pluck coconuts and thought that maybe everyone in Kerala had left on a giant airbus to the Gulf never to return. Maybe communism had truly failed. Maybe I was the only person left on the planet. Maybe I should call her. Maybe I should just learn how to relax.

I’ve been to a lot of beach resorts and if you like the formality, facilities and hustle of a resort, Karikkathi is not for you. It offers a secluded and beautiful beach, good service (Rajesh, Krishna and Santosh were prompt, courteous and seemed to appear from nowhere when called), great food and peace and quiet, away from any flag-waving Marxists, ravers, peddlers, beggars or pink Germans.
I left Karikkathi and stopped by some of Trivandrum’s very beautiful temples. If you are ‘non-Hindu’ don’t expect to be let into these temples. However they’re still beautiful from the outside. The city was noisy and chaotic but maybe I was getting used to the beach. I went into a restaurant and ate more meen porichathu. It wasn’t as good as Krishna’s.

I flew back to Bangalore. The airhostesses were still catatonic and didn’t get me more tamarind sweets when I asked but I didn’t care. I even napped a bit and in the taxi, on the way home, I realized that I still hadn’t switched on my cell phone. I decided to leave it off, just for a little longer.

THE INFORMATION
GETTING THERE
Karikkathi Beach House is 8km from Kovalam, and 19km/half an hour from the Thiruvananthapuram International Airport. There are daily flights from Bangalore, Chennai, Delhi and Mumbai. The city is also well connected by train. The biweekly Trivandrum Rajdhani is a fast link from both Delhi and Mumbai. Chennai Mail and Ananthapuri Express are daily trains from Chennai. 

Karikkathi Beach House
The nearest road is 400m away and a pathway through palm groves takes you to the house. It has two double bedrooms. There is no air-conditioning and neither bedroom is provided with a television. The roof is thatched and the kitchen is part of the house. There is a mini cottage in the property, which is rented out if need be. Guests have access to the private beach and food is served on the lawn. Tariff for double bedroom: Rs 3,975 (May-October), Rs 5,300 (November, March and April), Rs 7,950 (December-February). The tariff includes accommodation, breakfast and taxes. For bookings contact Sajjad at 09847069654 (www.karikkathibeachhouse.com). 

AROUND & ABOUT
Karikkathi is great for doing nothing. Activities are lazy and indulgent: Ayurvedic massages (available at an extra cost), strolling about the private beach, boating. Just in case the seclusion gets too much, you could visit nearby Kovalam. You can also make a trip into Trivandrum and visit the city and its many temples and churches.

VISIT BELGAUM

I want to deposit Sameer in the jungle that screams of cicadas he mistakenly assumes are bloodthirsty bats. “Woh,” he mumbles. “Bahut
danger,” as if referring to a tricky mistress. He’s edgy. Ore-laden dumper trucks choke much of our way. The road has changed from smooth highway with bureaucratic pretension—NH4-A—to a devastated strip with no discernible number. It reveals layers like the ages so I have an idea how, in about a thousand years, archaeologists would come by Sameer’s remains.
A gruff, mysterious voice over the phone identified as Morvarid had said this is the best way out of Goa, and take a left after the check post at Anmod Ghat, in Karnataka. The last 20 kilometres, and Sameer is complaining that he will need to replace bearings in his car, springs, tyres.
Your taxi is called Sumo, I snarl. It’s a tank. Then I ignore him.
Have you seen it? Evergreen has a nice green. Even semi-evergreen. It’s greener than the green in my daughter’s palette.
I will meet my Eugenia later, but for now the trees are mostly a nameless blur in this vast plateau-valley deep inside the Western Ghats, bark spotted with age and new rain, leaves gloriously spring. Some have numbers nailed to them like reluctant legionnaires, CCCXXLIV and other such, decreed by Caesars of the forest department. The rare photo frame village passes by, and the rare villager. Space.
I can see the last turn-off. One Khaki. One tiny hut. One long bamboo barrier across Sameer’s intended grave. The line between out and about. Checkpoint Charlie.
Turn left 50 yards before it, I tell Sameer. He ignores me. He drives up to Checkpoint Charlie. “Hotel?” he croaks. Khaki points to a place 50 yards behind us. Kill.
It’s how we meet David. We’re going up the last two kilometres of packed-earth track to The Hermitage, and he is on his way down for a chore. “Morvarid’s there,” he urges. Floppy oilskin hat. Cool shades. Long beard. Easy smile. It is he: David the Wise.
Morvarid the Mysterious is waiting for us at a homestead laced with forest that smells of sweet earth and anticipation. I can hear six different birdcalls and I can’t make out more than Brahminy kite, bulbul and crow. The guest folder mentions these forests have 281 kinds. And 90 of butterflies including my Red Helen of the Papilionidae; 10 of bats; 32 of snakes headed by Naja naja, the King; and other paraphernalia: wild boar, spotted deer, sambhar, bison, plenty bear, some elephant. It’s why The Hermitage is protected by electrified fence, to care for abundant chikoo, mango, melon, Chinese cabbage, pak choy, more.
Morvarid is exactly as I imagined. Blunt. A little wary at first, and then, abundantly warm. A polite immigration check. If I lived where she does, I would.
Some tea? She asks. Sure. Anything special for dinner? Anything you make. Equity. It’s already so easy.
Rukmi brings tea and cookies. She smiles, toothless. The large bindi on her forehead is a sunrise in pre-dusk. The fluorescent pink ribbon tied like a shoelace on tightly knotted hair is a crafty revolution against her age.
Hari and I visit our room-cottage. We have the Gota, the one with bells and whistles. That means electric lights, attached loo, geyser, and a verandah with sunscreens. But we so badly want the others, and not just because they have toilets screened with brush, open to the skies. They’re truer. The Kadaba is a robust hut washed by sunlight, hurricane lantern and candle, a couple of chairs, and a hammock. The Machan is more rustic, bed futon-style on the floor, with a view of Morvarid and David’s little empire, 45 acres in 25 years and fortitude: raging forest, farm, eco-lodge and homestead in unpretentious four-in-one. It also has nearby my Eugenia—Eugenia Jambolana Linn.—an alluring jamun tree. We cannot have the rooms, on account of Ian and Sandy Who are Expected.
Three rooms set in a large clearing, a long hut that serves as dining area and lounge, a tiny mud and straw farm shop, and a circular depression to light campfire. A maximum of eight people at one time. More rooms and it would be profane. Maybe just one, David allows. They can’t handle more than that. Rukmi is there during the day, but Morvarid does all the cooking, and David the shopping, serving in the evening and washing up. There is also the farm to tend, and guests to pamper.

Hari, the restless jailer of images, takes out his camera. It’s a small howitzer. He shoots a few exploratory frames. Then sighs, drains the city, and settles back into the chair, a modest Jabba the Hutt in repose. I take a nap.
Sculley, the young Doberman leaps out from the sanctum of Fernandez and Fernandez, verboten to guests. She is mascot to Rukmi’s major domo. She places her snout on the crook of my elbow and looks mournfully at me. Fierce guard dog plays cute wabbit. I scratch her neck.

We meet The Goose, the goose. And Donald, the duck. And some no-name hens that act like jungle fowl and deliberately attack piles of leaf to look beneath—chicken deli. Two lily-white rabbits with pink noses look a little out of place in the cage by some nascent tea sprouts. But they are under the comforting shade of a Rain Tree. We all are.
“So you want to see the source of the Mandovi?” David asks.
Yes, I tell him. It would make a change from the vast sewer it becomes in Panaji, suffering refuse from grand and modest homes, ore mines, a hundred barges a day, fishing trawlers, merrymakers. Fifty of its nearly 80 kilometres so vile I suspect even clams waste away with toxic shock.

“It’s called the Mahadai here,” he says. “An hour’s drive. Then a walk.” He smirks. “Hard walk.” How hard? “Army commandos train in some parts. Few guests go.”

Instead, on a laptop he shows us photographs of a hike through dense jungle to a spectacular waterfall. The gorge is so deep it drops from sight. “An hour’s ride. Then you need to walk an hour and a half. Each way.” The smirk is back. “You can play Dr Livingstone.” Clever man. Of course we want to go.

The moon is out, three days from full. A nightjar speaks, and a fish owl. Marlene Dietrich sings Lili Marlene, and the Unter den Linden comes alive, one end of a triangulation away from modest Nerse village and Checkpoint Charlie. There are other points. Like tiny Teregali, where Rukmi lives, and where Babu’s son, an itinerant mason, is pariah. He is dying of complications from HIV/AIDS. He killed his first wife with it, and infected their child. He remarried, contrary to David and Morvarid’s fervent advice. Now the second wife and child are infected. So too, the joy of Holi, to be celebrated in the compound of Teregali’s school. The elders are concerned. If someone dies on the day of a major festival, it will be forever annulled. Babu’s son is a two-fold bum.

Meanwhile, there’s dinner. Potato and onion soup. Braised seerfish. Lettuce from the farm. Bread. Curried mutton with okra. Banana cream mousse with grated chocolate. Morvarid sits and watches us demolish it all. “You people hardly eat anything,” she chuckles. She knows what her food can do. Sadist.
The hurricane lanterns sway, amused. My game of palankuzhi, chance dealt with seashells, lies unfinished.

Sculley chases away some spotted deer from the farm’s watering hole. “Silly girl,” David admonishes. She skulks away, head lowered, while we begin a ride in a battlewagon of a Mahindra jeep that is raised on large desert tyres. It snorts like a pig and bucks like a horse. David wears it like second skin.

The source of the Mandovi. We have already bathed in a tributary, the Panseera, after driving for an hour beyond Talewadi, with its ruins of the Customs House that marked the divide between British India and Portuguese India. Punctilio of Empire in a clearing next to jungle fresh with bear dropping shiny with undigested ant heads.

Faraway, there’s the village of Amgaon. To the right, the formidable Bhimgad on a conical hill—remains of a fortress the warrior-king Shivaji built.

It’s steamy as we plunge into jungle. Creepers. Spiny rattan. Trudge. Wonder. Finally, the waterfall. Mahadai. Mandovi. She roars a couple of hundred feet into a large bowl, then into further pools before disappearing down a sheer gorge.
We swim in the freezing pure. Drink it. After, we eat sandwiches and lie in the sun on warmed rock like happy geckos.

I find a feather of a Pied Hornbill, and wonder if the one that just flew to its nest high above us shed it. I will walk into my house with Hornbill feather stuck in my hat, swaggering in jeans and hiking boots, sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned arms, backpack slung sexily over a shoulder. 
The climb back is death. But we are so alive.

Bear Hill. Heading 235 degrees South West, through a forest of bamboo. Altitude: 860 metres. Hardly a height, but tall above the jungle. Position: North 15 degree 34’ 37”, East 74 degrees 25’ 6.7”.

David’s GPS shows us where we are. He yearningly talks of 800 square kilometres of contiguous jungle sanctuary across Maharashtra, Karnataka and Goa, safe from robbers of ore, teak, rosewood and bamboo.

The moon has stealthily risen behind us. And, in front, the sun slips by a band of grey cloud, dappling golden-red across unending treetops already furiously alight with spring leaves.

The valley sighs with breeze. The sun is now gone. Babu’s son is gone too. But Teregali will have its Holi. Renewal.

THE INFORMATION
GETTING THERE
By road: The Hermitage is closest from Goa (140km/2hr30min), but it’s also possible to drive from Mumbai, Pune or Bangalore. 
By rail: The most convenient train is the Rani Chennamma Express, which leaves Bangalore at 9.15pm and arrives in Belgaum at 8.40am. It costs Rs 1,017 on 2A. The Hermitage can organise a cab to pick you up from the station (1hr). 
By air: Air Deccan flies to Belgaum from Bangalore (Rs 1,579) and Mumbai (Rs 1,679).

THE HERMITAGE
There are three rooms at this eco-lodge. One is the Gota, with electricity, attached bath, twin beds and a cot for children. The local-style Kadaba has similar accommodation, without attached loo or electricity. The Machan is sparse, superb, the toilet is a walk downstairs. Tariff: Rs 1,100 per person per day, twin-share, with all meals. Book at 092426-23020 and ask for Morvarid or David Fernandez (see also www.thehermitageguesthouse.com).

WHAT TO EAT
Leave it to Morvarid. Cuisine combines farm fare with Parsi and Anglo-Indian. Morvarid and David love to show off their excellent local vegetables, grain, cereal and fruit. There’s also a barbecue pit.

WHAT TO DO
Nothing and everything. Laze, play chess, learn natural dyeing, help with farm activities, go for off-road drives, hikes, swims, birding, rafting, and visit tribal communities. Trips are available for a fee, with David as naturalist.

VISIT KUMAON

It’s been a peculiar year, weather-wise. That’s why the rhododendrons aren’t in bloom, barring a few blood-bright blossoms. That’s why it’s come down to 10 degrees Celsius in the last stages of March and why, after a summer of virtual drought, it’s raining in this consistent, earnest manner. Who would think it’s Holi? The rain suddenly turns to a drumming hail and Anand Kumar a.k.a Bob says, “If the ground gets cold enough, we could have snow!” He’s trying to put an optimistic spin on things because he’s worried that we might be bored, confined to the house for two days by incessant grey curtains of rain.
I’m not worried about being bored in this comfortable, cosy house made of 18-inch stone walls and enormous timbers holding a wooden roof over a pinewood floor, with shelves of books to read by the light of rice-paper lamps, sofas to sink into, fireplaces to stoke and stare into, desks to write at, a television and video player and most of all those enormous windows which stare upon the lushness of Kumaon. I’m looking forward to it. There’s nothing like a freezing rain outside to make a crackling fire, endless hot pots of tea, a steady supply of pakoras and a book seem like heaven. Besides, the rain is welcome in a place that depends entirely on it for its water supply; a couple of days of this and all the rainwater harvested will take care of the next few months.
On the drive up from Kathgodam station the day before, the glorious Kumaon Himalaya hung in the sky like white fire, far higher than anything should rightly be. It’s the only glimpse we have of the high Himalaya for the next 48 hours; we eat a breakfast of cornflakes and warm milk, eggs, toast, juice and fruit on the lawn under a parasol to keep off the sharp sun, but by mid-morning I notice the light changing, becoming laden with shadow. It gets a little nippier and then the mountains disappear in a veil of cloud and a few grey-bellied clouds roll across the sky. For a while there’s that chameleon light with drizzle and sun at the same time, when all the greens stand up and shout at you—then it really starts to come down, the sky and the hill ranges losing definition in a haze of grey. You’d never know that the world’s mightiest peaks are floating in the sky behind the ridge.
Speaking of breakfast, I’m very open to the suggestion that fresh mountain air whets the appetite, and I’m happy to oblige. We’re at over 6,000ft, after all. I have cold to combat, and a higher metabolism to feed. I will do this conscientiously.
Writing at a pinewood desk in the common room, I give my eyes a break once in a while. If I look to the left I can watch rain pearling a beautiful pear tree still dusted with blossoms; to the right there’s an impressive sky scape made of thready clouds, snaking through more trees. The seaweedy arms of a couple of five-year-old deodar saplings, planted to screen the property from the neighbours’, extend through the mist like ghosts. It’s definitely moody; it might be spooky if it weren’t so pretty.
The two chipped-stone and pinewood cottages in which guests stay at Bob’s Place are next door to the little ivy-covered cottage in which Bob himself stays, along with his wife Poonam, when they come up from Delhi. The acre of land on which they stand is a fruit orchard filled with apple, pear, plum, apricot and peach. The three Kumaoni staff who tend the property have first dibs on the harvest as long as they keep the trees healthy. Bob’s Place, the commercial enterprise, is an extension of Bob’s place, the personal home in the hills frequently visited by friends and family. Bob and Poonam opened their home stay cottage to the world at the suggestion of friends who came, stayed, and loved it. And the personal touch of both is evident in every detail.

Bob planned, designed and constructed the whole place himself, while Poonam’s light touch has turned it into a cosy home. Ivy and wild rose creepers have begun a fragrant march across the façades of the cottages. There are cheerful, bright curtains and beautiful old carpets; tiny lamps warm up all the corners and modernist prints hang all over the walls. The place is filled with fireplaces and bukharis. The common room is dominated by a black-and-white painting, on tin, of Raj Kapoor and Nargis. Small ceramic creatures stand on the mantelpiece. In the garden there’s a bhumi devta shrine to Shiva, which Bob and Poonam left where it was when the priest told them they couldn’t move it because it’s very old. The size of the cottage defers to this pretty little shrine that has diyas, a bell and a trident. All Kumaon worships Shiva; and the shrine faces the grand scalloped face of Trishul.

Over two days of rain, beading off every visible surface, I’ve made good progress through my 1,000-page novel—fortified by the odd pakora. Every once in a while Narendra appears like a benevolent genie and presses more comestibles upon us. Neither he, nor the other two Kumaoni men who comprise the staff, think it’s bizarre to be serving a teapot full of tea every hour. This is a home stay, which means that the food is like home food. At lunch, we take our plates to the fireside to eat hot mutton curry and vegetables, daal and rice and rotis. I have two helpings—really, it’s quite cold and I have calories to make up.

Bob joins us over meals to have a chat. He’s a tall, fit, gregarious man of 58 who sold his garment export business in 2000 and bought his little cottage in the hills. He knows how to enjoy himself, which is what you’d infer from a fellow who has left work at 1pm to play golf every single day since 1981.

In the evening we share a nice bottle of Chianti with a delicious meal—salad with a homemade dip, pasta, toast with garlic butter and roast chicken and potatoes done to perfection. Then we descend in a fog of satiety to our bedrooms, which have already been warmed up with a glow of coals in the bukhari and a hot water bottle under the blankets, to fall on our faces and sleep like the dead in an utterly silent night. I don’t think I would have woken up if a man-eating leopard had burst into my room, done a tap-dance and begun to gnaw at my leg.

There is such a leopard, apparently, roaming the hills around nearby Hartola. It has clocked four human lives, and at least one attempt on a woman who was cooking in her kitchen, and it has brazenly attacked people in broad daylight. The Forest Department has not been able to catch it yet. Bob has cut out the item from the local newspaper, framed it and nailed it to the wall to prove to sceptical wildlifers that there are still leopards in these hills. On the second night I step out on the deck to see stars glittering in a clear sky with a sumptuous moon gilding every leaf, and have to remind myself that that leopard hasn’t been seen for a week. We’re not far, after all, from where Jim Corbett shot the man-eater of Mukteshwar.

On the third morning, after bed tea, I step out and find that the world is a real spectacle; the sun is shining brightly and the sky has fallen into the valley in a huge fluffy sea of white; a cloud-river in spate which has made islands of the hills. The sun will burn it off eventually. A beautiful blue bird flashes by—a fairy bluebird? A verditer flycatcher? A couple of tiny green bee-eaters are poking around in the trees. It’s time to work off some of those pakoras.

A couple of kilometres down the road from Bob’s Place, past the little market in Nathuakhan (which, by Bob’s estimation, supplies an area of 40 square kilometres), is a walk down through fruit terraces to a little green stream that burbles along a boulder-filled defile. It only takes about half an hour there and back at a leisurely pace, but it’s a nice little picnic spot if you choose to sit around at the bottom. The Maheshkhan forest reserve is just next-door.

One kilometre up the road from the cottage, towards Mukteshwar, is Reetha, from where a 15-minute walk through dappled forest takes one to an old sarai built on an outcrop that overlooks the valley, in a grove of deodar trees. A small shrine has also been built adjoining it. The grove is a great spot to while away a mild afternoon with a book or nice company.

But we’ve really eaten a lot of pakoras and decide to do penance on a slightly harder walk which starts from Ora Khan, a kilometre and a half further from Reetha, on a sweet-scented forest trail that soon splits in the directions of Mukteshwar and Sitla. Mukteshwar is a hard hour-and-a-half trek with no respite. We decide that we didn’t eat that many pakoras and haul ourselves in a gentler walk to Sitla in 40 minutes, with the scent of the forest in our noses and the shine of pine needles in our eyes.

I can understand why honeymooners never leave the cottage, and I can see why some people use the cottage as a base to explore beautiful Kumaon. We’re so loath to leave Bob’s Place that we set off for Kathgodam station too late for the liking of our driver, who keeps up a steady grumble about how we’re supposed to build in a time margin for, say, a punctured tyre and if we don’t, well, how can we expect to make the train? Sadly we do make it, with seven minutes to spare.

THE INFORMATION
GETTING THERE
The drive from Delhi to Nathuakhan can take up to 9hr, via Rampur-Kathgodam-Bhimtal-Bhowali-Malla Ramgarh-Talla Ramgarh. But most convenient is the Ranikhet Express (leaves Old Delhi 10.45pm, arrives Kathgodam 6.30am; Rs 601 on 2A). A taxi sent by the hotel will pick you up and deposit you at Bob’s Place by 9am.

BOB’S PLACE
The cottage currently offers four rooms spread over two buildings. The suite has a double bed and a sitting area downstairs with a twin bed and an open-air sitout upstairs, both with bathrooms attached. The cottage has two double rooms with bathrooms (one attached, one in the lobby) downstairs; upstairs is a large common area, a kitchen, a small dining area, and a large balcony. Another two rooms will shortly be added. Tariff: Rs 3,000 per couple per night, all meals included/Rs 2,500 with breakfast and dinner. For bookings contact Anand Kumar (Bob) in Delhi at 98110-34861; in Nathuakhan at 05942-285510 or emailbobanand@gmail.com (www.wah-kumaon.com).

AROUND & ABOUT
Amble down the road through Nathuakhan market for 2km until you hit the path that takes you down through orchard terraces to a pretty little stream that makes a nice picnic spot. The walk takes about 30min from the roadhead. Another 1km up the road from Bob’s Place, towards Mukteshwar, is Reetha village from where a gentle, shady walk through forest takes you to a charming old sarai in a deodar grove. A lovely place to while away an afternoon. Another 1.5km further up the road from Reetha is Ora Khan village, from where you can take either a stiffish 1hr30min trek up to Mukteshwar, or a gentler walk to Sitla (40min), both through a dappled oak and chir pine forest. both through a dappled oak and chir pine forest.

VISIT LADAKH

1 ZANSKAR 
The Zanskar is one of the most remote and beautiful rivers in the country, and the only one high enough to raft in the summers. The 120km-long run from Padum (the headquarters of Zanskar) to Nimu (the confluence of the Indus and Zanskar) passes through magnificent mountain gorges and involves some thrilling whitewater. It’s graded 3-4, and has no road support. At the end of each tough day you’ll be camping in utter wilderness. Outfits organizing rafting trips include Himalayan River Runners (011-26852602; www.hrrindia.com), Mercury Himalayan Explorations (011-23346209; www.himalayanadventure.com) and Snow Leopard Adventures (www.snowleopardadventures.com).
2 HIGH PASSES 
Ladakh literally means ‘land of the high passes’. Here you will find Khardung La, at 5,602m the highest motorable pass in the world. Just under 40km north of Leh, the pass leads to the Shyok and Nubra valleys and was opened to vehicles in 1988. Historically, traders used the pass to get from Leh to Kashgar in Xinjiang Province. The second highest pass, Taglang La (5,328m) is crossed on the popular 485km drive from Manali to Leh. The pass is 109km from Leh. Chang La (5,270m) is the third highest pass and is the approach to Pangong Tso. The passes are best navigated between June and September. Taxi fares are set by the Leh Taxi Union (01982-252723/253039).
3 WILDLIFE 
The Hemis High-Altitude National Park and the Changthang Cold Desert Wildlife Sanctuary are the two main designated wildlife areas in Ladakh, but wildlife can be found scattered all over the region. Some of the main species of mammals in the area are the bharal or blue sheep, the great Tibetan sheep, Tibetan antelope, serow, ibex, snow leopard, red fox and the Tibetan wild ass or the kiang. The lakes: Tso Kar, Tso Moriri and Pangong TsoÑare home to the great crested grebe, brahminy duck, bar-headed goose, the endangered black-necked crane and the ruddy shelduck. Himalayan Safaris (01982-252638) and Overland Escape (250858) can arrange your trip.
4 ROUTES 
Ladakh is remote but surprisingly easy to access. The simplest way is to fly in. Both Jet Airways and Indian have flights to Leh from Delhi six days a week for Rs 6,900 one-way. Two highways link Ladakh to the rest of the country: the historic 434km Srinagar-Leh road, over Zoji La, through Kargil and the Zanskar range; and the tourist-friendly Manali-Leh highway over the Rohtang pass and the much higher Taglang La. Buses leave from both Srinagar and Manali. Motorcycling is popular but arduous; carry petrol because you won’t find pumps in Zanskar or Nubra. Mountain biking is increasingly popular. To avoid Rohtang, you could try the route from Spiti to Kinnaur and through to Lahaul via Kunzum La.
5 WHITE SANDS OF NUBRA 
The Nubra Valley lies between the Ladakh and Karakoram ranges, its borders touching Pakistan and China. It was on the Silk Route, but China put a stop to the caravans that passed along the Shyok and the Nubra rivers. Now, the double-humped Bactrian camels that roam the white sands near Hunder are the only reminder of the ancient trade route. Hunder, the last point up to which travellers are allowed to go, is a small village in a green valley, which is known for the white sand dunes that come a little before it (with a 4-wheel drive you could venture on to the dunes).
6 THE GOMPAS
Ladakh’ most imposing edifices are all monasteries. At Stakna, Shey or even Lamayuru (the oldest ÔlivingÕ gompa) you may be content to admire the massive hill-top complexes from a distance. But up-close the monasteries are full of ancient atmosphere and ritual as well as many artistic treasures. DonÕt miss the large Chon-Kor Maitreya at Thiksey. The main hall (du-khang) of the thriving Hemis Gompa is impressive but even the ruins of Basgo are arresting, and perhaps the greatest works of Ladakhi sacred art are the surviving murals on the crumbling 12th-century walls of Alchi.

7 FESTIVALS 
One of the most colourful sights in the stark landscapes of Ladakh is the festival that happens here all year round. Every monastery has its own festival where masked dances alternate with ritual chanting—the most famous of these festivals is the one, which takes place at the Hemis gompa (late June/early July). For a complete list of monastery festivals seewww.jktourism.org/cities/ladakh/festivals. In addition to these festivals the Ladakh administration also organises the Ladakh Festival between 1-15 September every year, in an attempt to boost the fag end of the Ladakh tourist season. The festival features dances from all over Ladakh, an archery competition and a polo competition that takes place on the Polo Ground in Leh. Losar, the Buddhist New Year, is a winter celebration.

8 THE FOOD 
Ladakhi food has a lot in common with Tibetan cuisine but it doesn’t have to be all thukpa-momo. Ask for a thentuk—like a thukpa with small flour dumplings or a kothey—like fried momos but less greasy. Noodles abound of course and it won’t be long before you can tell your thankthuk (short, flat) from you laman (longer) with your eyes closed. Tibetan Kitchen (Fort Road) offers an expansive repast, the gyakok, from a chimney broiler—the gyakho, which may be familiar if you’ve ever had a Chinese fondue. Or call Hotel Snow View in Changspa (9419178598) to order a five-course Ladakhi Tibetan meal (Rs 300 per head). Tired of carbohydrates, vegetables and mutton? Drop in at the venerable Dreamland (Fort Road) for fresh snow trout in garlic butter.

9 JEEP SAFARIS
One of the most exciting ways to see the vast rocky plateau and mountains of Ladakh is to jeep across. Ladakh has an extensive network of roads, thanks to the Army—most of them mountain roads that cling to hillsides above rivers and streams. A number of operators organize jeep safaris—Banjara Camps (26861397; www.banjaracamps.com) organizes extensive safaris with stays in camps—they even offer a Delhi-Manali-Leh-Srinagar-Delhi safari. Far Horizons (011-51602100; www.farhorizonindia.com) also organises safaris in Ladakh. One of the more interesting safaris takes you on a spectacular and often treacherous drive to Padum, the headquarters of Zanskar.

10 CAMPING SUMMER IN LADAKH 
is perfect for camping—the weather is good and the trees are flowering. Tented camps, from spartan to luxury Swiss, spring up all over. Most are ad hoc affairs so inquire at the tourist office in Leh—but there are also a couple of well-established camps and camping areas. Ladakh Sarai, near Leh, is popular (around Rs2,000; call 011-23511483). To stay near a monastery, try either the Gaph-Chow Camp (Rs60-400; 01982-227151) near Likir, or the camp at Hemis (R 75; book through the restaurant near the Hemis gompa entrance). You can also camp near the lakes—at Pangong Tso (Rs800) and near Tso Moriri, at Korzok, where you can stay in the Nomadic Life Camp (Rs800; 01982-254845). You can also camp at Rangdu in Suru and at Chamba Camp (Rs 1,500-3,000; 01983-221140) near Diskit.

THE BASICS
Ladakh is indeed not for the acrophobic. The highest airport in the country is at Leh (3,505m); the Leh polo ground at 3,500m is said to be the highest in the world; the world’s highest observatory at 4,517m is in the village of Hanle. But Ladakh also has the dubious distinction of being the home of the world’s highest battlefield, that of Siachen at 6,300m, which is serviced by the world’s highest helipad at 6,400m.

So if you come by air from the plains, you will have to spend some time acclimatizing to the altitude before attempting anything even slightly strenuous. Lack of oxygen in the air can cause breathlessness, lethargy, dizziness, headaches, nausea and insomnia. Take it easy for the first 24 hours, and be sure to drink plenty of water and aim for three to four litres a day. Leh’s water supply is notoriously unsanitary so only drink mineral water. Expect to go to the bathroom a lot. Avoid alcohol, if possible.

SCENEMATIC 
Ladakh is an increasingly popular location for movies, ad films and music videos (Kargil, Maruti, Ma tujhe salaam) but it all began with the gritty realism (Bollywood standards) of Chetan Anand’s war movie Haqeeqat (1964).

ORACLES 
There are thought to be over 200 living oracles in Ladakh. True oracles are born not made, but once identified they undergo three to six years of tutelage. Famous oracles can be found in the Matho Gompa, a 16th-century monastery 20km from Leh. An annual festival is held here, usually in late February-early March. Many oracles deliver their pronouncements or medical diagnoses in a trance, possessed by spirits. Some healers even suck out disease using straws.

PLAYING POLO
Generally associated with the rich and famous, polo is said to have originated in the Western Himalayas, possibly Baltistan and Gilgit, and is quite popular in Ladakh. According to legend, the game was introduced in Ladakh in the 17th century during the reign of King Sengge Namgyal whose mother was a Balti princess. In the Ladakhi version of polo, teams of six players compete against each other in a game that lasts for an hour. The game is part of Ladakh’s cultural fabric and almost every major village boasts a polo ground, called shagaran. The most enthusiastic games can be witnessed in Drass and in Chushot, a village close to Leh. But it is in Leh that the game has been institutionalised, where teams compete for the Ladakh Festival Cup during the Ladakh Festival (September 1-15).

RUINS 
Chiktan is a small sleepy town, nestled in the middle of snow-covered mountains, and what you notice first about it are the lofty crumbling ruins of the Chiktan Fort (Chiktan-e-Rajikhar). The once majestic fort is now in ruins—its nine floors reduced to a few walls, but the view from the fort is spectacular. Chiktan is 30km from Sanjak, which is beyond Achinathang on the Khalatse-Batalik road. If you have the time, in Chiktan meet grand old man Mohammad Moussa, who’ll tell you tales about the fort.

VISIT LEH

The first piece of advice is for before you even leave Delhi. And that is, get on the 5.40am flight. It sounds brutal, and it is. But this is how you do it. Forget about going to bed, any sleep you get that night won’t be worth having. Instead, make sure you’re the first in the queue to check in, and insist on getting an A seat, at either the front or the rear. That way, you’ll be on the left side of the plane, facing away from the sun, and won’t have any wings or engines to get in the way of what is likely to be one of the most awe inspiring sights you will ever see out of the window of an aircraft.

And that is, of course, the Himalaya as it builds up from the hazy patchwork of the plains, to the craggy jigsaw of the foothills, to a massive crescendo of snow and ice that sometimes seems so close you could lean out and scoop up a handful. This goes on for a full twenty minutes. The mountains are so immense, so trackless, so pure and rich in their whiteness that you realize that the place you are going is no ordinary destination. This really is the back of beyond.

As a final flourish, the aircraft twists over the Indus valley, so that snow cones, cocoa brown ridges rippled with white, silver streams and turquoise rivers flit by the window in quick succession. This is home for the next few days.

SETTLING IN
Leh is a pretty easy place to get comfortable in. You can find a room with views of ripening fields of barley fringed by downy poplar trees with brooding mountains in the background, for a few hundred rupees. You can sip beer in garden restaurants with food from around the world. You can marvel at the crystal clear air and the dazzling light, the imposing palace and the hills crowned with Buddhist shrines. But let’s be honest. There’s not a great deal to actually do. Compared to what’s on offer elsewhere in Ladakh, Leh’s attractions are pretty average. The temples are nice enough, but there’s nothing to compare to the glories of Alchi’s murals, or the storybook wonderment of Thikse or Stakna. Leh’s views are pretty, but Pangong Lake knocks them for six.
Which is perfect, because if you’ve flown up you’re going to spend the first day or two in an altitude-induced daze, and if you’ve come up by road from Srinagar or Manali, you’re going to be even more in need of a rest. Relax, do some shopping, and take in a few sights as you gain strength to take on the serious stuff.
TAKE A WALK
Everything’s within walking distance in Leh—up to the main bazaar, once thick with caravans from Central Asia. Women in headscarves and maroon gongchas—the traditional dress of Ladakh—sell massive tubers on the pavement outside the shops. An entire stretch of footpath is given over to dried fruit. Bearded Muslims alternate with prayer wheel-spinning Buddhists, with the same sun blackened faces, all selling the same thing: exquisite, addictive dried apricots that fizz in your mouth, blonde sultanas, tangy dried tomatoes, cashews, almonds, walnuts, apricot oil and the juniper branches burnt in Buddhist offerings.
Wander down the alley, which runs parallel to the main shopping street, and wrestle with the temptation to go native. On sale are the tall, brocaded hats synonymous with Ladakh, known as tipi; felt shoes with curling toes known as papu; sheepskin lined, cross button vests known as gongchi, the lorol, a brocaded, sheepskin-lined cloak worn by Ladakhi women; and the ubiquitous gongchas. Stock up on Buddhist paraphernalia such as prayer flags, incense and embroidered wall hangings of the eight auspicious symbols or the mantra ‘om mani padmi hum’. Or head down Old Road, where colourful Chinese crockery is ranged neatly in the shop windows.

When it’s time for lunch, check out one of the Tibetan cafes in the main street. The Wok Tibetan Kitchen is the best. Or make the most of the view and international cuisine from the rooftop at La Terrasse, just off the main bazaar. 

A couple of sights that the guidebooks direct you to in the centre of town are a bit of a disappointment. The mosque is a modern structure which dominates one end of the bazaar. Diagonally opposite lies the Jokhang, or central Buddhist temple, which is a simple affair. It does have a fine roof and an eye-catching fake gold and mother of pearl chandelier hanging from the atrium, though. The 0ld town, just behind the bazaar, is a shadow of its former self, its character now buried beneath acres of concrete. The winding lanes and very occasional old doorway give a sense of its former charm, but only just.

EATING OUT
Time for dinner. And it’s time to be honest again. Because they had to, OT sent me to Leh to research this story in April. That meant that almost all the restaurants were closed, and most of the hotels. In fact, with the passes closed for seven months, there was barely a skerrick of fresh food in the entire town. For six days I lived on tough chicken, greasy chowmein and Maggi noodles. (There was also no running water in my hotel, and electricity for four hours a night. It rained, and then it snowed. Think you want to be a travel writer? Think again.)

In other words, I can’t really recommend many restaurants or hotels, other than a couple I remember from two years ago. There are plenty of them, though, and by all accounts the food is good, ranging from Indian to Italian to Israeli to Korean. Check them out. Most of the good restaurants are clustered around Fort Road, to the south of the centre. For Tibetan, try The Wok Tibetan Kitchen. International options are as diverse as La Terrasse for Chinese/Indian/Continental, Dream-land for mixed cuisine and beer, Pumpernickel for Western food and German bakery type stuff, Little Italy for Italian.

WHERE TO STAY
Leh abounds with places to stay, with almost every second house being converted into a guesthouse. Kanglachen has nice, airy rooms (Rs 2,100-2,500; 01982-252523). Or try Hotel Dragon (Rs 1,550-1,875; 252139). The Welcom-Heritage affiliated Shambha La, set in an orchard just outside town, has doubles for Rs 2,500 (252607). For hotels away from the hustle and bustle of town, try the suburbs of Karzoo, Chubi and Changspa, just a few minutes walk from the centre.

THE SIGHTS
By the second day you should have the energy to tackle the Royal Palace, the massive, slope walled monument built by King Sengge Namgyal when he shifted the capital to Leh in the 17th century. There’s not much to see inside—the palace is undergoing renovation and it’s completely empty. But it offers great views of Leh, and its rabbit warren interiors are atmospheric. Only one room features a couple of murals which, unforgivably, are covered in graffiti. (Amitabh Lone, whoever you are, you’re a cretin.) After this, take the path further up the mountain to Namgyal Tsemo Gompa, a monastery which consists of two buildings, the maroon Maitreya temple, which houses a large Buddha, and the white Gon-khang temple, with its ancient murals.

A couple of other places are worth a visit. The ecological centre is run by an organisation called Ladakh Ecological Development Group, established to foster sustainable development in Ladakh. They help establish alternative energy projects, encourage organic farming, and run income generation projects such as handicrafts. They show videos about Ladakh, and run a shop and well-stocked library from their centre on the west side of town.

The Sankar Gompa, two kilometres out of town, makes a pleasant walk through the fields. Climb upstairs to the shrine room to see the main deity, a thousand-armed Tara, and then up to the roof, for fine views of the valley.

That leaves one more evening for beer and pizza before heading out in search of the serious stuff. Be warned: there’s lot of Maggi noodles out there.

GETTING THERE
Jet Airways flies daily to Leh (except Saturdays) for Rs 6,885 (one-way). Leh can also be reached by two spectacular overland routes, one from Srinagar, the other from Manali (but these are only open in summer).

Things to Buy
Curio and carpet shops, handicraft emporia and bookstores can all be found in Leh’s atmospheric main bazaar, where once caravans from Central Asia used to flock. In season you’ll find a Tibetan Market off the Fort Road area. Bargain hard and watch out for fake antiques.

For local crafts to take back home check out the LEDEG handicrafts shop. 
Pick me ups include objects as diverse as turquoise, coral and silver jewellery, woodwork including the low, intricately carved, brightly coloured tables used by monks to read sutras, embroidered T-shirts, snug down jackets, metalwork including copper tea urns and the telescopic long horns used in Buddhist ceremonies. Chinese crockery can be found in the shops along Old Road.

Rather popular seem to be the traditional Ladakhi dresses and the ubiquitous prayer wheels and singing bowls. Dried fruit, especially apricots, sun-dried tomatoes and yak cheese make good food-buys.